Persistence of Memory
by eigna
Summary: “What do you want, House?” you sigh, and you sound tired even to your own ears. Tired of the games, tired of the two of you dancing around each other in this endless circle. Contains spoilers for an upcoming ep. HouseCuddy


Title: "Persistence of Memory"  
Author: Angie  
Pairing: House/Cuddy  
Rating: R  
Spoilers: Up through season 3, to be on the safe side. Pretty much my own version of 3x14.  
A/N: Thanks so much to the ever wonderful Mary for betaing this for me (and for the title!). You rock my argyle socks, hon. (Just imagine that scrolling marquee full of hearts in H1, dear. ;)) I hardly thought this would be my first fic contribution to the "House" community, but this popped into my head after having read the recent spoilers for ep 3x14, and it had to get out.  
Disclaimer: No, I don't own any of the House characters. Unfortunately. I'd have so much fun with them.  
Summary: You forget that you don't have sex on the first date; you forget that you don't have one night stands.

He looks at you expectantly, his smile eager and eyes glittering with anticipation. Realizing he's in the middle of telling you some funny anecdote, you grace him with a laugh, even as you feel it getting stuck on the way out. You laugh so rarely these days that it's strange to hear yourself doing it. To you it sounds as fake as it is, but he doesn't seem to notice, and accepts your laugh as the appropriate reaction, going back to his story as you in turn settle back against the soft cushions. You're ashamed that you're not concentrating on what he's telling you, concentrating on him, but your thoughts are elsewhere, and no matter how many times you try to shake yourself loose of them, they continue to hold you hostage. You just don't know if you're an unwilling prisoner or not.

You study the man sitting across from you on the couch, the candlelight flickering in his painless, green eyes as they watch you. David. Lawyer, successful in his line of work, comfortable with himself, comfortable with life. He's good looking, he's nice and pleasant, he's attentive, he's scar-less. He's everything you were looking for, everything you could have hoped for. And yet.

House showed up at the restaurant during your dinner, cane in one hand and helmet in the other, and within the time it took you to get him out, he managed to not only insult your date, but to ignite something within you that you're not certain you're ready to fully acknowledge. His scruffy face with the scorching blue eyes is burned onto your corneas; the smell of his leather jacket is still over-powering the smell of the red roses next to you, the red roses David brought you before dinner; his leering words in the middle of 'consulting' you about his patient are still ringing in your ears, shutting out everything else. It took him two minutes to etch himself into your mind for the rest of the night, and you hate him for it.

What he was actually there for is still beyond you, because he certainly didn't need a second opinion from you regarding his patient, but you have long ago given up on trying to understand his every motive. But something had flashed in his eyes as they'd found yours and then flicked over to David and then back to you again. Something you hadn't seen before, maybe something you haven't wanted to see before, and therefore didn't recognize. And it's that look – that split second of something other than what you normally find in his eyes – that still haunts you now, even as you sit comfortably on your couch in your own living-room, your third glass of red wine in your hand, and in the company of a handsome man who obviously finds you both attractive and interesting and who isn't afraid to show it.

When the doorbell rudely interrupts your thoughts and David's story, you jump to your feet and excuse yourself with an apologetic smile, because you know who it is. You should be surprised to find him on your doorstep at this time of night – you should be surprised to find him on your doorstep at any hour of the day – but you're not. The only surprising thing is that he actually bothered to ring the doorbell and not simply climb in through your living-room or bedroom window. Though you realize that he probably checked the windows before he came to the door.

You pull the door open, the scowl already etched on your face, and you find yourself eye to eye with the man you haven't been able to shake from your mind all evening, leaning heavily on his cane, the grin on his face not the least bit sorry.

"Lisa, who is it?" David's voice drifts out to you from the living-room, and you watch as House raises his eyebrows at the use of your first name, and though it shouldn't be strange at all, you feel yourself almost wanting to do the same, because it's been so long since anyone other than a family member or Stacy called you by your first name that it almost feels foreign to you.

"I'll be right back," you call back, and you realize you didn't answer his question.

So did House, because something a lot like triumph flashes across his features as you push him back and follow him out onto your doorstep, closing the door behind you.

"Bringing the guy home on the first date?" he leers and waggles his eyebrows, as if he didn't already know, as if he hadn't already seen the two of you, and you briefly wonder if he would have bothered using the doorbell had you been alone. "You little tramp."

"What do you want, House?" you sigh, and you sound tired even to your own ears; tired of the games, tired of the two of you dancing around each other in this endless circle.

"Work emergency," he says, almost sounding honest, but he's the best liar you know. "I need your consent for—"

"At eleven-thirty at night?" you interrupt him, annoyance in your voice, because you already know where this is going, and you're not playing his game. "You don't need my consent at this hour, and you don't need to consult me at this hour." You tilt your head in that way that you do, your voice softening, but only barely. "In fact, I'm not sure exactly what it is you need me for." You leave out the last 'at this hour', and you know he notices this, too. He notices everything.

His eyes flash down to your chest, not missing a beat. "You need to have a bra on," he says, deftly avoiding the issue at hand." You just met the guy!" He blinks. "_Lisa._"

You're half-tempted to point out that you're wearing a backless dress, but you know that he already knows this, too, and it's all pointless. He's trying to make a joke out of it all, but you see the same thing you saw at the restaurant; that unrecognizable glimmer in his eyes. Something resembling jealousy, possessiveness. And despite your exhaustion with it all, you decide to play your own game, with your own rules, because playing games is after all what the two of you do best.

"I like him," you say, testing him, and he rolls his eyes like a five-year old. "And I like sex." The rolling of his eyes is accompanied by a snort, but you can tell he hadn't expected that one, and you decide to up the stakes. "Do you like me, House?"

That throws him off, and you're strangely pleased with yourself for having been able to render him speechless, even if only for a couple of seconds. You use the moment to push further.

"It's just that usually you do everything to avoid me when it comes to your cases, and now you suddenly need my input on everything, on every single procedure? So I'm thinking you're either an altruistic person concerned about my well-being, and we both know that isn't true, or you want me for yourself…"

You trail off, trying to gauge his reaction, and you're not surprised, but rather filled with an intense disappointment as you feel it crushing the hope you didn't realize you had, when he inevitably makes a joke out of this, too.

"You left out the evil bastard that just wants to mess with other people's happiness," he says, but only after having professed his undying love to your cleavage, and you don't believe him, but he's still stuck dancing, refusing to follow you when you have already left the dance floor. And you can't force him to join you, which means you have to relent and join him.

"You could've had me." There's a strange sound in your voice that you don't even recognize yourself, and that's all you say, but those four words said more than if you had just held a two hour long speech. Your confession startles him, but not as much as it startles yourself. You have disrupted that finely tuned balance between the two of you, and there's no going back. But you're tired of waiting; of what you don't know, but it's not this, and you won't wait anymore.

"Good night, House," you say, the words almost a whisper, and you slip back into the safety of your house, closing the door between you and him, and he doesn't stop you, and you hadn't expected him to.

Hand still holding the door handle, you lean your forehead against the cold surface of the door, your breaths loud and shallow and erratic, and your heartbeat pounding loudly in your ears. As you begin to move away, you hear a rustling sound – a brushing noise on the outside of the door. You can hear the hinges groan as he puts his weight against it, leaning heavily into it. Several moments pass with no motion, and you hold your breath. Then, just as suddenly, the wood relaxes as his weight is removed from it. Then the unmistakable sound of his limp and cane as he walks away, and you finally release the door handle along with your breath.

You slowly walk into your living-room where David is patiently waiting for you on the couch, looking up at you with those friendly eyes and that friendly smile just a bit puzzled and expectant, and you suddenly find yourself taking his hand in yours, leading him to your bedroom, and you forget that you don't have sex on the first date; you forget that you don't have one night stands.

You forget.

You're both out of your clothes before your back even hits the bed, and then he's on top of you, his hands touching parts of your body that haven't been touched by anyone than yourself for a longer time than you'd like to remember. You arch into his touch, because your body needs it, craves it, and you want to forget.

He slides down your body, coming to rest between your parted legs, and then his mouth is on you, his tongue tasting you, probing you, and you can feel his constant five day stubble scraping against the inside of your thighs, even though a small voice in the back of your mind keeps reminding you that David's face is clean shaven.

You forget.

He kisses his way up your body, trailing small kisses over the non-existent swell of your stomach, and you pretend that he knows, because it makes tears appear behind your closed eyelids. When his lips finally catch yours, the taste of yourself is mixed with the bitter taste of Vicodin on this tongue, and you drink him in, drowning in him, losing yourself in him.

You forget, and you give yourself completely to your imagined sensations, and it feels real, and it feels safe. It goes against all rhyme and reason, but it gives you comfort; a feeling you don't understand and a feeling any sane person would never connect with the man who does everything in his power to avoid an emotional connection. But you have never been sane when it comes to him, and you gave up on sanity a long time ago.

When he reaches for protection you don't stop him, because despite the intense longing that still lives inside of you, the part of you that _can't_ forget doesn't want it to happen this way. He fumbles slightly with the foil, and you slide your body out from underneath him, rolling him over onto his back, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over his chest. Your hands trail down over his stomach, and you feel the still all too new scar under your fingertips and you kiss it while your hands travel down further until they trace the scar that defines him. You pause for just a second, and then your lips follow and you whisper a soft 'I'm sorry' against the missing muscle, because while this is what defines him, guilt is what defines you.

His hands are in your unstraightened hair, shorter now than it was a year ago because you needed a change, and then his fingers twine through the unruly curls, pulling you up to straddle his waist, and when he nibbles your lips, his tongue seeking entrance, you let him in, engaging in a fierce battle, fighting for control, and he breathes heavily into your mouth.

One hand finds your still slim waist, and he guides you until he slips into you inch by inch, and you gasp into him, your eyes prickling, because it's been so long and it hurts. But you welcome the pain, because it reminds you that you can feel, and then slowly as you begin to relax, the pain subsides, or you begin to welcome it.

Hands on your hip, he tries to roll you over, and you stop him, because that's not how it would be. Instead you take his hands in yours and you guide them to cover your breasts, where you know they would have found their way a long time ago already. His palms are strangely soft against your flushed, sensitive skin, and then you feel it: the callus right where it's supposed to be in the hand gently kneading your left breast, and you hold his hands even closer to you, reveling in his touch as you raise and lower yourself above him.

You tear your lips away from his, tracing the quickened pulse just underneath his jaw until you find the last scar you know he has, and you kiss it, too, completing the circle. He's breathing something into your ear, but you don't hear it, you don't want to hear it. You simply let your mouth rest against the wounded skin, and then he's moving faster until you feel the familiar tension building up in the pit of your stomach.

You dig your nails into his back and when a final thrust makes you cry out, the name that falls from your lips is the one that has been occupying your mind the entire evening. He either doesn't notice or he doesn't care, but when he cries out your name just a few seconds later, you ignore the fact that it's not your last name that escapes him, and you instead imagine you hear the slight lisp in his '_Lisa_'.

Your body still trembling, your breaths still coming out in short gasps, you slide off of him, turning your back to him as you pull up the covers and clasp them to you. His breathing slows down behind you, and then he leans over you to place a small kiss on your cheek, and you squeeze your already closed eyes shut even tighter. You realize you haven't opened them since your back first hit the mattress.

His weight shifts on the bed and then the mattress creaks as he gets up and a few seconds later you hear the water being turned on in your bathroom, the door closing behind him. He comes out again before you've given yourself the chance to decide; decide on what, you're not sure you know.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks, softly, caringly, and you pretend to sleep, because you know House would have left quietly in the dark of the night without even asking.

But he doesn't leave. Instead you feel the bed dip as he slides in next to you under the covers, spooning up against the length of your body, slipping his arm around you. You turn your head into your pillow, and you feel it get wet from the silent tears you didn't even realize were falling from your eyes. You have never felt more alone.

Fin.


End file.
